The Hill
by Jennifer Hack
Summary: A continuation of the ending of north & south.
1. Cholera

The Hill.

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A/N: My continuation of the ending of North & South. I don't own anything. As always, reviews of any sort are always welcome.

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(1.)

_'Margaret!' _

_For an instant she looked up; and then sought to veil her luminous eyes by dropping her forehead on her hands. Again, stepping nearer, he besought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name. _

_'Margaret!' _

_Still lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, almost resting on the table before her. He came close to her. He knelt by her side, to bring his face to a level with her ear; and whispered-panted out the words:- _

_'Take care.-If you do not speak-I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way.-Send me away at once, if I must go;-Margaret!-' _

_At that third call she turned her face, still covered with her small white hands, towards him, and laid it on his shoulder, hiding it even there; and it was too delicious to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close. But they both kept silence. At length she murmured in a broken voice: _

_'Oh, Mr. Thornton, I am not good enough!' _

_'Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.' _

_After a minute or two, he gently disengaged her hands from her face, and laid her arms as they had once before been placed to protect him from the rioters. _

_'Do you remember, love?' he murmured. 'And how I requited you with my insolence the next day?' _

(2.)

At last he had her, sighing softly on his shoulder, lulled to sleep as the train continued north, home. His fingers wound around her small, delicate hand, the hand that had saved him once. He brought it to his lips and kissed it.

She stirred but did not wake.

He thought of his need, upon seeing her again, to bring her home. Margaret, whom he had always loved, who had lost so very much.

The wedding was anon, yet achieved at very little expense at her insistence.

She had walked to the church, her face full of colour and lovely, on that day.

Mrs. Thornton had come to admire her practicality and devotion. Twice now, she had saved her son.

(3.)

"Oh, Bessie." Margaret stood there on the hill, the saddest and most beautiful landscape in all the world, where many had been buried, but today she had come only to see one. She paused and bit her lip, sighing into the cool evening wind.

As she stood there with Bessie Higgins, Margaret could not help but think of all the friends she had known, and would never see again. Her own brother was lost to her, perhaps for ever, on some distant, foreign shore she did not know. Margret whispered questions, but they were not answered.

(4.)

There was something in his Mrs. Thornton's manner that troubled him a little, as she grew silent from time to time.

In the firelight, Mr. Thornton reached for her pale, delicate hand. She turned her head away from her book and smiled at him, lacing her fingers through his larger ones.

"Whatever made you change your mind?" He heard himself ask.

"My mind had never changed." Margaret's voice was soft. "I could not bear… to lose you, as well. It would not have been right… when you asked me before. It would not have been right." She choked.

"Shh," John Thornton reached for her, his palm pressed against her cheek. "I do not want you to be unhappy."

"I am not." She insisted, smiling and kissing his hand, his face. "I am not."

They lingered like that for a moment, until a sound at the door reminded them that they were not alone.

Reluctantly, Mr. Thornton released her. Margret tarried, delicately placing a kiss at the soft place where his jaw met his neck, then rose, too quickly, leaving him.

"John," Margaret looked up suddenly, her vision blurred, dizzy. The colour drained from her face as she gripped the back of a chair tightly, as if that could keep the world from spinning.

He looked up at her, alarmed.

"John," She spoke again, a plea, a whisper. He was at her side in an instant.

"What has happened?" He asked her, as her body collapsed and fell against him. His arms encircled her in an instant.

He heard his voice calling for the servants, his mother, but it was not him. He clasped his young wife against his chest, holding her there , praying she would last.

"I have sent for the doctor," Mr. Thornton advised his mother.

"There is no need for that." Mrs. Thornton shook her head. "She is well enough, no harm done." She gestured to the door. "She's asking for you, John."

"I don't understand." He asked, his voice very low.

"She was with child," Mrs. Thornton whispered. "These things happen," She said, touching his arm regretfully.

He entered the room, walking carefully, trying to understand what it was his mother had meant.

She averted her eyes instantly, unable to look at him, even as he sat beside her and took her hand.

"I do not know…" She admitted in a disconsolate breath, sitting in their bed, her hair worn loose like a girls. "To feel these children grow… then fade, and I do not know whether to name them, or bury them, or…"

(5.)

"A letter for you, Mrs. Thornton." Jane offered.

"From Edith?" Margaret studied the letter. "It is from Spain." she paused, turning it over in her hands. "Thank you." she smiled, but the smile quickly faded into a sense of presentiment and anxiety.

"Is something amiss, Margaret?" Mrs. Thornton inquired, looking up from her needlepoint.

"It is not from my brother Frederick."

With great care she opened the letter. Moments passed, taking the colour from her, leaving her pale as death.

"Margaret?" Mrs. Thornton repeated.

She had seen it printed somewhere, pandemic.

"There… there has been an outbreak of cholera." her voice wavered.

Mrs. Thornton put down her needlepoint, the sound it made against the mahogany table was deafening.

"My brother and his wife have…" she paused. "they were taken ill. Their daughter, Maria, is now an orphan, barely five years old."

"Go and fetch Mr. Thornton." she instructed Jane.

"No," Margaret said, her voice loud for a moment then taciturn, "No, I must write immediately, and leave sooner."

"Leave? Whatever for?"

"I must go and collect the child, and bring her here."

Mrs. Thornton reached for her daughter in law. "Margaret," she said firmly, placing her hands upon the younger Mrs. Thornton's arms. "My son would not want you to rush headlong into a cholera pandemic." she urged, then spoke softly. "The child will be sent for."

She left her then, and Margret sank down onto the couch, now feeling the true weight of her brother's death upon her.

"Go and fetch Mr. Thornton." Mrs. Thornton spoke to Jane in a low voice, unable to take her eyes away from Margaret, lest she run while her back was turned. "before his pretty wife does something reckless."

(6.)

She did not lament or mourn, but stood there as pale and perfect as a marble statue, wondering at the courtyard below, unmoving.

"Margret."

She turned to face him, and reached for him as he crossed the room, the distance between them, and embraced her.

"John," she murmured against his chest, and the salt tears poured from her. "It's Fred… Fred is gone."

He held her tighter.

(7.)

It was late, too late to be in the dark and saturnine railway station.

Margaret waited, almost too anxious to breathe.

The train, lumbering, slouched toward the platform in a cloud of grey smoke and noise.

She searched the crowd of strangers until at last she found her, the small, lost little thing, miles and miles away from the bright shores of Cadiz.

"Miss Maria Hale?" A pale, beautiful woman she knew she had never seen before spoke to her , with her father's wide, smiling eyes.

"Mrs. Thornton?" she spoke slowly, unsure of the words, the sound of them. English was not her first language, but she had learned it all the same.

"Come," Margaret smiled, taking child's hand and suitcase. "We must get you home. Have you eaten?" she asked as they left the station. "Such a long journey, you must be exhausted!" She was trying hard, perhaps too hard, to talk of simple, pleasant things.

(8.)

Margret stood at the door of what had become Maria's room.

The girl slept soundly, utterly exhausted, having come from a brighter, warmer place to the grey, smoke-filled streets of Milton.

Margret felt a familiar and on her shoulder and sighed, leaning into him.

"John."

"I would have gone with you, If you'd waited."

"I know," she said.

"How was she, when you met with her?"

"Tired… and so young… I wonder if she even understands." Margret found herself thinking of her own parents, a silent valediction. She found her hand coming to rest on her husbands, placed about her shoulder.

"Come," he urged her gently, his arm wound itself around her waist and they walked, vanishing into the hallway.


	2. The Street

The Street

(1.)

Mr. Thornton woke early, as he usually did, Margret still sound asleep against his chest, arms enfettered about him - a trick; to keep him from leaving without waking her.

Mr. Thornton smiled, tracing the familiar contours of her body. She stirred at his touch.

"Margret," he whispered.

She murmured something, a protest.

Laboring a little, he sat up, his movement entreating his wife to wake.

He sat on the edge of the bed, lingering, running his fingers through his short dark hair.

He felt Margret at his back, her cheek pressed against his shoulder blades, her cool fingers brushing across his bare chest, then holding him there.

He leaned his head back and sighed, and she released him, much sooner than he would have liked.

Mr. Thornton stood to leave, but thought better of it, turning and slowly leaning, he kissed her cheek, her lips; pushed against her and they fell back.

The workday would not start for a while, yet.

(2.)

The younger Mrs. Thornton stood by the window, while the elder studied her carefully.

She watched the men, women and children below, working as she had not had to, fascinated.

Little Maria had slept for most of the day, but Margret did not dare leave, lest she wake to find herself alone in a strange, grey place.

The child padded ever so quietly into the room, and asked a question in a language Mrs. Thornton did not understand. At once, Margret sighed, relieved, and knelt down to speak with her.

"We must speak English now, for Mrs. Thornton is here, and it is not polite."

(3.)

Mr. Thornton returned home late, surprised upon entering to hear the sound of a child's laughter, echoing like bells. A smile crept onto his face as he walked through the halls in a wonder.

Margret sat on the floor with the child, her pale face and luminous eyes glowing brightly. She looked up at him and smiled.

The child regarded him curiously, in fascinated awe of this tall, dark stranger.

"Hello," He offered the child a hand in greeting. "How do you do?"

(4.)

Margret awoke in the night to a terrified scream followed by a sorrowful wail.

She disentangled herself from her husband's embrace, Mr. Thornton already beginning to wake.

Margret was at Maria's door in an instant, and swept the child up in her arms.

"Only a dream," she soothed. "a nightmare." Maria clung to her until her knuckles turned white, her sobs muffled.

Once Maria had fallen asleep again, Margret carefully arranged the sheets and blankets about her, and left the room quietly.

"Is she all right?" Mr. Thornton asked, standing in the doorway holding a candle.

"Only a dream," Margret spoke in a whisper, taking his arm.

(5.)

"Why does she talk funny?" Young Tom, taller now, than he used to be, asked Nicholas in a hushed whisper.

"She came from Spain, they speak another language there." Nicholas explained.

Margret did not hear this conversation, concentrating on Maria as she played with the other children. She had been timid and shy at first, upon meeting these children that were taller, and not dressed as fine as the others she had seen before.

"I know the cotton comes from America." Margret admitted, forlornly. "A nation that relies on slaves for it's supply. I've heard things, horrible things, about women that drown themselves and their children in the river, when they get sent further south. John does not know that I am aware of such things."

"Your man is too principled for that depravity. I know him well." Nicholas paused, thumbing the mug in front of him. "The ones that have never had to work, that have had everything given to them, all they know how to do is take and take. They took my wife from me."

"What happened to your wife, Nicholas?" Margret asked, then immediately held her breath, knowing the weight of the question.

"She worked at Slicksons." Nicholas began after a lengthy pause, thumbing the mug in front of him. "She always was a fair, pretty thing. The most beautiful woman I ever saw. She could have done better than me, but she didn't have a mind to." He stared into the black abyss of his cup, as if it was about to swallow him whole.

"There was a bad winter, the mill had closed down. She was gone for two days and nights. I was led to believe that she stayed with friends across town, unable to get back. What I didn't know is that the master had taken an unhealthy interest in her." He shook his head at the memory, looking at no one. "I cast her out, and mourned her like one would the dead."

"I am sorry." Margret said after a long while, collecting her thoughts, wondering what else she might have said. "She may yet live," she began, then stopped, realizing the abjection.

"No," Nicholas smiled sadly, and shook his head. "There is no chance of that. The streets are a hard and unforgiving sort of place." forgiving the insult. "I apologize, Mrs. Thornton, for speaking so plainly about my wife's fate. I am beyond any feeling of shame, only regret."

Margret Thornton, unable to look at him any more, wondered at the unforgiving nature of the world as she watched instead the rain as it fell against the windowpane.

What was it that turned men into monsters?

(6.)

Margret lie asleep in the sitting room, where she had waited for him. Sighing, Mr. Thornton loosened his cravat and sat beside her.

"Margret, love." He spoke gently.

"John." She smiled, her eyes half-closed. She reached for him and held him tightly.

That morning came late. He found himself not wanting to leave her, he never did.

John lie on top of her, enveloped in her arms, her fragrance pervading every inch of him, occluding all other senses. She had been all he'd wanted, even when he had nothing else.


End file.
